Violent Ends

by Neal Shusterman

  He was eight, too, but he was in second grade, so I knew who he was but we didn’t play together or anything.

  I was up in Mrs. Hinkle’s tree hiding from Mom. It was a better hiding spot than under our tree. She would have known to look there. Kirby hopped out of a car that looked kind of like our old car, which Dad had taken with him, and then walked over to my curb and tightrope-walked it like I always did. Then he hopped the cracks in the sidewalk, ran across the lawn, and stopped short at our tree. He walked partway around it, and then the other way, and then ducked under the branches, out of sight. He was shorter than me. He could probably still stand up under there. It would be quiet and dim, like being inside a living cave. The tree shuddered. He was pulling on the branches, or maybe ripping them. He was hurting it. But it was his tree now.

  While Mom was handing over the keys, I stared at Kirby. Mom was thanking them over and over for taking our house. I was trying to decide the best place to punch him for maximum effect. Maybe his face. Maybe his stomach. All I would have to do is take one big step and I could hit him. But then Mom’s hand landed on my head, and she steered me off the porch and pointed to the car, like she’d known I was two seconds from attack.

  I sat in the too-hot car that smelled like feet and laundry detergent and waited for Mom to finish hugging neighbors good-bye, watching Kirby walk into my house. He kicked the front step and then hopped up the others while his dad waited for him. I could see them through the bare windows, walking through the living room, and then into the dining room, and then I couldn’t see them anymore, but I knew they’d be in the kitchen. I climbed into the front seat so I could lean forward enough to see him run to my swing set. His father was out there with him. And his little sister—she wasn’t a little brother, but close enough. All that was missing was the dog I’d always wanted.

  They got the dog later. It barks like crazy when I deliver their pizza.

  Mom moved closer to the car, but someone kept coming over to hug her or give her something. It took so long that eventually I saw Kirby look out my bedroom window. His dad opened it and they leaned out, and I knew his dad was pointing toward the park, which you can see from my window if you lean just right and look between the houses across the street. He still has my room. If I drive by after dark, I can see him, sitting in front of the computer or sometimes on his bed, sometimes just the light bleeding around the edges of the blinds. A few years ago they threw away my swing set.

  For a while I had to see Kirby a lot—at school, where his classroom was next to mine and we had to use the same door, and sometimes when I went over to my old friends’ houses. But then Kirby changed to St. Puke’s. I didn’t have to see him every day in the hallways, on the playground, or walking my old route home from school with the kids I used to play with. I didn’t have to see his parents—his mom and his dad—at Parents’ Night and every other school thing.

  I didn’t have to watch Kirby living my life, only better.

  Mom worked a bunch of different temp jobs and then got one steady one. When she decided I could stay home by myself sometimes, she got a second job and we left that first crappy apartment for one with two actual bedrooms. Even better, the second job was only a block away from Brothers Pizza. At least once a week she parked me at Brothers with enough money for one slice and a bottomless soda while she worked. I was supposed to do my homework, but once they got used to me, I sat at the counter and talked to Emilio and Federico—the “Brothers” themselves. Or Maria, who looked exactly the same then as now, right down to her huge pile of dyed-orange hair. Emilio would bring me extra pizza and dessert. Sometimes if Mom worked real late, I would go in back and listen to the radio and help roll silverware in the napkins.

  They started letting me unofficially work there when I was twelve. One night when I was picking at my slice, trying to make it last and wishing I could have three, Emilio said, “Raimondo”—he always calls me that even though my name is just Ray—“you might as well be on the payroll, so long as you’re here all the time.” I swept floors, cleared tables, took out the trash, and basically did whatever Emilio told me to in exchange for several dinners a week, more cake than any kid should ever eat, and a little money of my own. It kept me fed; sometimes it kept both of us fed when Mom lost her first job and we were living on just the second one. A lot of nights Mom would have a slice or they’d give her a “to-go” bag on my “tab” when she came to pick me up.

  When I turned fourteen I started working at Brothers for real.

  * * *

  “Ray!” Federico yells behind me, followed by the bell that Emilio said is supposed to be our more genteel signal that there’s food to run. They had a huge fight—in Italian—about the bell. Emilio won, sort of. Federico rings it, but he yells first, which defeats the purpose, but Emilio won’t give in and remove it.

  The food is for Maria’s table, but I run it over and then grab them more sodas and grated parm.

  I swing by my tables on the way to Kirby’s. He hasn’t even opened the menu Nicole left for him. Maybe he doesn’t have to after all these years.

  “Are you ready to order?” I ask him. But he looks up like he’s surprised to be asked. “I can come back, or . . .”

  “No. I’ll have a slice with sausage and mushrooms, and a Coke, no ice.”

  “Anything else?”

  He shakes his head and hands me the menu. Nicole’s standing at the counter, watching me, a weird look on her face. I walk over and put the menu away and then detour around the other end, behind the cash register, and into the back, all without looking at her.

  I put the order slip into the carousel and spin it toward Federico, but he waves his hand at me instead of grabbing it.

  “Slice. Sausage and mushrooms.”

  “One slice?” Federico asks, like it’s my fault it’s slow.

  “One slice.”

  Federico starts mumbling in Italian, and Maria says, “Hey!” from the other side of the door.

  “Can’t hear to run the food or when she screws up an order, but her ears have no problem with the whispers,” he grumbles louder.

  “What’d he say?” she asks when I come back through the swinging door behind the counter.

  “How happy he is you’re working tonight,” I say. Nicole snorts, but Maria just waves her finger at me. Whenever Emilio isn’t here, she sees it as her duty to keep us all in line, most especially Federico.

  She busts my ass and makes me do way more of the grunt work than I should have to, but Maria’s the one who taught me what I needed to know to move from washing dishes to bussing tables, and then to waiting on them. She’s the one who told Emilio she needed a break from the crap shifts, so he would let me wait tables on the slower nights and weekend days.

  * * *

  “Go on, kid,” she said on my first night wearing a long-sleeved, button-down white shirt and clip-on bow tie (bought by Mom at Goodwill). “Regulars. Good tippers. A good first table.”

  The walk across the restaurant area of Brothers felt like I was walking onstage in front of a crowd.

  “Hi,” I think I said. “Welcome to Brothers Pizza. I’m Ray. I’ll be your server.” Mom had coached me, and right after I said it I could hear Emilio’s barking laughter, and the others. (Brothers isn’t a “server” kind of place, Maria mocked later.)

  “What?” I asked, because I’d been distracted by the laughing and missed the start of the order.

  The man smiled at me. “A large antipasto, no olives, extra salami, add artichoke hearts.”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “It’s what we always order,” the woman said, leaning past him to talk closer at me. “They’ll do it.” She pointed to the order pad in my hand and I started to write, but I couldn’t remember and looked up. “No olives,” she said. I wrote it down. “Extra salami.” I wrote it down, pausing over whether salami had one “l” or two, and going with one. “And add artichoke hearts. Just tell Federico it’s for us.”

  I wrote
it down, word for word, but I was afraid to ask who “us” was. I hoped Federico would know, and he wouldn’t make me come back out and ask.

  “Two orders of the cheese bread and two medium pies, one sausage and mushroom. The other half cheese, and half green pepper, basil, and fresh tomato. And a half bottle of the red,” the man said, pointing to his chest, and then his wife. “A Coke—”

  “—Diet Coke,” the girl said.

  The man looked at her for a beat and then said, “A Diet Coke,” but he said it like the word diet tasted funny. “Kirby?”

  Kirby was scrolling away on his phone.

  “Kirby?” his father said again, and then Kirby said something but I missed whatever he said, because it was only then that I realized who they were. Who Kirby was. And they were all staring at me.

  “What?”

  “Chocolate milk,” Kirby said slowly, and then he scowled at me, like he thought I was messing with him. Like I thought he was too old for chocolate milk.

  “Great,” I said, too loud. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” I made a point of smiling big at all of them, especially Kirby, so they’d know I wasn’t messing with anyone. Kirby just crossed his arms and slumped back against his chair.

  His dad said something to him, squeezing Kirby’s shoulder and dipping his head so Kirby couldn’t ignore him. Kirby stopped scowling, but he wouldn’t look at me when I brought the drinks. All except the wine—Emilio brought the wine since I wasn’t allowed, making a big fuss over them.

  When he thought no one was looking, Kirby pulled the glass of chocolate milk to him, tilted his head, turned it around until he found the angle he wanted, and then stirred the extra chocolate around in the bottom of the glass—not enough to mix it in, but just enough to make it swirl up in the milk and then settle again. Then he held the straw out of the way and took a long sip from the glass, and smiled. He drank every drop and then scraped up every smear of chocolate with the spoon.

  They left me a good tip, despite the fact that I screwed up the pizza order, brought Carah regular instead of diet, twice, and almost spilled water all over Mr. Matheson.

  At the end of that first shift I counted out a chunk of my tips for the hostess, busser, and dishwasher, and then stared at the bills Mr. Matheson had handed me when I tried to give him his change.

  I carried them around in my wallet for a few weeks before I forgot where they came from and bought something.

  I’d almost stopped thinking about them.

  Then school began, and there was Kirby, looking a little uncomfortable out of uniform like all the St. Puke’s kids look at first. If he knew who I was, from Brothers or from before, he never let on, and I didn’t say anything. Since he was a freshman, we didn’t have any classes together except gym, and I didn’t really do much at school except school, but when we passed in the halls he didn’t say anything or look at me.

  The next time they came in, and the next, they were someone else’s table.

  I tried to ignore them, but it was hard. They always sat at the same table. Emilio made a fuss. Kirby’s father joked around and his mother smiled, with her fancy clothes and hair, her shiny painted nails.

  * * *

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. Text from Mom. But before I can look at it, Federico yells, “Ray!” and then the bell dings.

  “If you’re gonna holler, you can skip the bell. Emilio’s not here.”

  He glares at me, then goes back to his muttering. I hear two of Federico’s three favorite curses and smile harder. Some nights getting Federico wound up is all the entertainment there is.

  I slide the slice in front of Kirby, along with some napkins. “Need a refill?” I ask, even though it doesn’t really look like he’s touched the Coke.

  “No thanks.” Kirby’s looking at the slice like he doesn’t remember how to eat it.

  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  I check on my other tables, drop some checks, and then lean against the wall behind the register, where Federico can’t see me, to text Mom. Yes, I dropped off the rent. No, I couldn’t fix the toilet. Mr. Arneson said he’d come by when Mom got home. She asks about work and I say fine and then “g2g,” which she finally learned means I can’t text anymore.

  Kirby and his sister always have new stuff—sneakers, iPods, phones. They often tune out and play with their phones when they’re done eating, sometimes even during.

  My phone is held together by duct tape, and Mom hates it when I play on it when we’re sitting at the table.

  The Mathesons still come in two or three times a month, but it’s been less than before. Every time the same table, same order, except Kirby gets Coke now, no ice. I don’t think he really likes it, because he never needs a refill. I only wait on them sometimes. Everyone wants to wait on the Mathesons.

  Mr. Matheson orders for delivery whenever Mrs. Matheson is out of town for work. I can always tell because he doesn’t ask for artichokes on the antipasto when she’s out of town. Sometimes he only orders one pie—sausage and mushrooms for him and Kirby, veggie on half if Carah’s home. Sometimes—more often, lately—he orders a side salad and a small white pizza with fresh basil, and when I deliver it he asks about school or the weather or sports, and I never know what to say. I usually just pet Pepper and nod to whatever Mr. Matheson is saying, and then take the money and leave.

  He doesn’t know that I can hardly stand to ring that bell and then have to be there on the porch talking to him being all nice and friendly and asking questions.

  That still feels like my house and my life that someone else is living. And every time I pull out of the driveway with the empty delivery bag, there’s this strange sense that somewhere, sometime, someplace else another me is coming down the stairs and into the kitchen, ready for pizza, and someone else is driving away.

  Nicole’s ringing up to-go orders. Even on slow nights there are a lot of carryout orders and deliveries. Her magenta-tipped ponytail bobs as she smiles and flirts with the regulars and grabs the phone in between. She can do eight things at once without missing a beat, making everyone feel she is really focused on them.

  I have to make change for one of my tables and clear a few others that have turned over since the busser went home. Finally the PDA couple are done sucking face and want to leave.

  “Here. Before they go for round four,” I say, handing Nicole the guy’s credit card and the check.

  “Wish Emilio would add that to his No list—No solicitations. No cursing. No smoking. No guns. No swapping saliva.”

  I deliver the credit card receipt and start sloppily clearing the table around them so they’ll leave as soon as he signs it.

  Kirby’s just staring at the table in front of him.

  “Is it okay?” He doesn’t seem to get what I’m asking, so I point to the slice he’s only taken maybe three bites from.

  “Yeah, fine.” He takes another bite as if to prove it.

  Another text from Mom. She’s heading home. Good. Then Mr. Arneson can come fix the toilet and I won’t have to worry about it anymore. God, it’s nice not to be constantly hiding from the landlord or afraid to call him like that first place we lived.

  “What’s with tonight?” Nicole asks, sliding along the counter and leaning over to look past me and into the dining area. “It’s dead.”

  Three tables eating. Two done and with their checks. None that need attention.

  “Weeknights are always slower,” I say, “but Thursdays are usually better than this. This is . . . yeah, totally dead.”

  She sniffs and her nose wrinkles. “Is that what stinks? It’s so-dead-it’s-decomposing night?”

  “Gross.” She smiles like it’s a compliment. “Seriously gross.” She just smiles bigger.

  If it doesn’t pick up soon, Maria will cash out, which is fine by me. By now I can handle a slow night by myself. Nicole will help if we get slammed. And Frank can bus tables in between deliveries. More money for me.

  “You’re welc
ome, by the way,” Nicole says.

  “For what?”

  “I gave him to you,” she says, as if it was obvious. Then she nods to the booth by the window, the only one occupied on this side.

  “His dad’s the big tipper, not him,” I say. “Besides, they might as well all be my tables tonight.” Maria isn’t even pretending to pay attention anymore.

  Nicole doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her look. Yup, chin down, brows up.

  “What?”

  “You’re always staring at him,” she says. “Here. School.” She looks toward Kirby, as if to make the point.

  “Am not.”

  Chin lower, brows higher. And a smirk. “Maybe he’s scoping you out too. You should go for it.”

  Huh?

  “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen, he shoots you down?”

  “I’m not scoping him out.”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t think anyone else notices. You’re cool.”

  Kirby’s just twisting the straw wrapper around his fingers, first one way and then the other. Over and over.

  The wrapper is going to rip. It has to eventually. But one way and then the other, over and over around his fingers, and it doesn’t rip.

  The phone rings and Nicole’s gone before I can tell her, again, that I don’t stare at him. Except I probably do, just not for the reason she thinks.

  “Federico!” she yells through the swinging door. “Phone. It’s Emilio.”

  After a few beats I can hear Federico’s end of the call, even out here, and Maria hustles in back to shut him up.

  Nicole leans on the counter next to me again, dramatically, like we’re both sighing over Kirby. I should have said something before. Now it’s weird. She makes that stupid sighing sound again.

  “I don’t—”

  But she’s gone, grabbing menus on her way to greet the people at the door.

  Kirby is still twirling the wrapper. One way and then the other. Over and over.

  Maria’s nowhere to be seen, so I take the new table, get them their drinks, put in their order, and then swing by to check on Kirby. He looks up.